You Only Live Once
by Jesus Almighty
Summary: Enter an elderly James Bond—worn, torn, and out of luck. (WARNING: Please don't read this story if you can't handle steamy sexual situations, drugs, or any level of violence.)


Tiffany Shake stood naked at the hotel room window, trying to enjoy the breeze against her skin, but her mind stayed on the propofol syringe hidden beneath the pillow.

She gripped the windowsill. A pregnant moon shone upon the city below, casting it in a ghostly murk.

Her employers had told her to kill a man tonight, that if she did she'd be free. Free to return to normalcy, to the life she once detested. University. Parents. Routine. Malaise. A life so distant, so inviting. She contemplated the embrace of bitchy Mom, the warmth of never-satisfied Dad. She knew now there were far worse things in this life than boredom and restlessness; the past months had taught her this much. She told her employers she couldn't kill, that she'd never done it and she'd never be able to live with herself. They said the target had a thing for young women, that he wouldn't go for anyone else. After a brief back and forth, it was decided she wouldn't kill him. At least, not directly. She would need to drug him, though. Once he was unconscious, she would enter the hotel lobby, where a man would be waiting to go up to the room and finish the deed. If she failed—if the target was still conscious by midnight—she was fish food.

Tiffany glanced at the clock. 9:03.

She shut the window, then put on a robe and walked to the minibar, where a small bag of powder had been placed by the employers. The target liked cocaine before sex, they said. She'd never had sex. She'd never used drugs, either. She wondered what her therapist might say if he could see her now. Or how many demeaning comments her parents could rattle off for failing to meet the _Impossible Standard of Good Daughtership._

"Am I a good little angel now, Mom?" she whispered. She opened the bag and poured the contents into a pile. She didn't know what else to do with it, so she moseyed to the bed. "Do you like me now, Dad?"

It hadn't taken much for Tiffany to open her eyes. And to see what? That the "good life" was purposeless. All purposeless. Career. Marriage. Children. Die. What good was that?

She looked the hotel room over. Now _this_ wasn't a purposeless life. This life had "excitement." She was a _free woman._

Free? She giggled. No, not _free_. That reasoning had grown stale month ago. But what hadn't gone stale, what remained as fresh as the moment she first realized it, was purpose. She had purpose. A purpose. Her own purpose. She had a _point_ , a reason to be. So if this was her purpose, her _point_ , then she was going to stick to it. Grow into it.

The clock read 9:08. She lay in the bed, leaving the upper half of her robe open in a seductive way. The room door was unlocked. The target would arrive any minute.

She was about to lose her virginity to some geezer.

She laughed.

Then she went silent, because she had to kill the poor guy. And how would she do that?

She imagined a heavy weight spread over her naked body, thrusting and hurting her. How long would the propofol take to kick in, and would he get violent once he realized what she'd done? Perhaps she would do it in the throes of his orgasm. In the penultimate moment, she would reach behind her pillow, and during his release, prick him in the neck. Depress the syringe fast and hard.

Her belly rumbled. She ran to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. Dull skin and sunken eyes stared from the mirror. She rinsed her mouth, then returned to the bed.

At 9:43, there was a knock.

Tiffany breathed. "Come in," she said in the seductive voice she'd spent all day practicing by watching trashy pornos.

The door creaked open, revealing a broad-shouldered figure cloaked in shadow. He stepped—limped—forward until he was beneath the first ray of moonlight entering the room. Gray peppered the hair around his temples. His eyes, blue and narrow like two slivers of topaz, accented a scar on his cheekbone. She imagined the white stubble on his cheek brushing against her own face. He bowed slightly.

She swallowed, struggling to keep eye contact. ". . . Hi."

"Hello," he said in a British accent. He smirked. "Your name, dear?"

"Tiffany."

"Tiffany." The old man smiled. He surveyed her, then limped to the minibar. "Call me James."

* * *

Tiffany closed her robe and sat up. This guy, this "James," expertly fumbled with three bottles and a shiny metal container, seemingly oblivious to the pile of cocaine. He dropped a handful of ice cubes into the container, then poured from each bottle. He gave the container a quick shake before pouring its contents into two glasses, then rummaged through the minibar for a minute.

"I don't suppose you have a couple of lemon slices on hand," he said. The corner of his lips perked. He sat beside her and handed her one of the glasses. It chilled her fingers.

She stared at the alcohol in her glass.

"Martini," he said. He sipped his. "Three parts Gordon's, one part Vodka, half a part Kina Lillet. My own recipe, you might say. Though I prefer a slice of lemon." He considered his half-empty glass, then chugged the rest. "But you can't have everything in this life, can you, dear?"

Tiffany raised her glass to her nose and sniffed the pungent concoction.

"You don't fancy a martini? Here." He took her glass and downed it, then carried both glasses to the minibar.

She fondled the carpet with her toes. "I don't drink."

James lowered his brow.

"I'm not twenty-one yet."

His eyes widened. "Ha! Well." He smacked the minibar table with his palm. "Does a young girl still like to party in this day and age?"

"I . . . don't get out much."

James partitioned some of the cocaine into a line. He leaned over it. He held a tiny straw to his nose and inhaled loudly until his portion was gone. He shook his head, then led out a deep, slow breath. "Care to party, little girl?" He motioned to the rest of the cocaine.

Tiffany trembled. "No. No thank you."

James found a bottle of brown liquor from the minibar and took a swig. He carried it to the window.

She studied his profile in the moonlight. If he could get drunk, then maybe it would never come to sex. She reached for the syringe to make sure it was still there, still real. The clock read 9:54. Two hours was enough to get a full grown man drunk. She hoped.

And then she ignored that thought, because she wasn't a killer.

But, but no, this wasn't killing; this was merely helping a killer. Besides, even if she did nothing, he was dead anyway, the difference being that she'd be dead alongside him.

She felt for the syringe again. Still there. She stood and walked slowly toward the minibar.

This James guy was apparently under the impression that her employers were his friends, that a night with her was a "gift" for something he'd done for them. She wasn't too sure on the details. As she rested her hands on the minibar, she watched this grandpa and wondered who he might be. What had he done to get himself into this situation? Her employers seemed the mafia type. Had this guy crossed them? Did he owe money? This was such an elaborate way to kill a man, though. So he had to be someone important. Or dangerous.

She rolled her eyes. All she knew about organized crime was from the movies.

Perhaps he was too difficult to shoot in broad daylight. Perhaps it wasn't so easy to send some guy out to shoot him.

She watched the profile of this strange old man drinking alcohol at the window, the man who may have been able to avoid a thousand assassins' bullets yet acquiesce to the whim of a twenty-year-old girl, and braced herself. She needed to focus. Get him drunk, or horny. Distracted. Then the syringe, then run to the lobby and out of this nightmare forever.

She snuck to the other side of the minibar and crouched down, sifting through bottles. _Pouilly-Fuissé. Riquewihr. Babycham._ The names meant nothing to her. She grabbed two at random. If she was to survive the night, she had to be brave. James was the enemy. No, he was the door. The key to the future. One simple obstacle, the overcoming of which ensured life. She mixed the two alcohols into his and her glasses, dropped an ice cube in each, and carried them toward James.

James flung his bottle at the wall. It exploded, leaving a wet blotch where it hit.

Tiffany dropped one of the glasses.

James turned to her. His eyes were . . . they were red. Wet. Swollen.

She retreated. She stared at his nose, his stubble, the window, the moon-anywhere but his eyes. "Are you . . . all right?"

He smiled. "My dear, if I was 'all right,' I wouldn't be a drunk."

He walked to the bed and sat near her pillow. _Within arm's reach of the syringe._ She suddenly felt vulnerable, as if her only defense against death had been compromised. She sat beside him with the remaining glass.

He took the glass and tossed it. "No," he said, opening her robe, "that won't do." He placed his palm on her thigh, just above the knee. Muscles in her back and neck contracted at his touch. He leaned his mouth to her ear. Alcohol poured from his breath.

"Marry me," he whispered, massaging her thigh.

She scurried to the far side of the bed. He watched her like a child who'd just been told he couldn't have desert. After a moment, he grinned.

How does one deal with a crazy old man alone in a hotel room? One who was probably dangerous? She held her robe closed and looked at her feet.

"No, it wouldn't be proper," he said. "You have your whole life ahead of you yet." His voice broke. "I was a married man. Me, if you can believe it. Can you believe it, girl?"

"I . . . don't know you too well to judge."

"Me, a married man." He laughed as if he'd just remembered the inside part of a joke. "Tracy."

She glanced away. "I'm Tiffany."

"Ah, no. Dear, that was her name. Tracy. Teresa di Vicenzo. But she liked 'Tracy.'"

Tiffany needed to get to other side of him, closer to the pillow. Or at least get him off the bed.

She forced herself back to his side and placed her hand on his. "What happened to her?"

"She got shot."

Tiffany flinched.

"And on our wedding day, no less." James undid his collar. He got up and limped toward the minibar. Tiffany scooted to the pillow and planted herself firmly in place. Calm overcame her, now that she was near the syringe.

 _Shot?_

So this old man _must've_ been involved in the mafia. And how long ago was the wedding? Probably a couple of decades, at least. Probably before she was born. He must've been involved with crime for life, then.

Still, _shot._

Poor guy, she thought, watching him stagger over bottles and squinting at their labels.

What sort of life had he lead? What sort of miseries had he experienced? What had he done to deserve losing the love of his life—and she had to be the love of his life if he never married again—on their wedding day? He had to have pissed off the wrong people.

He knocked back a glass of some new concoction, then went to work preparing a second helping.

She sighed. Maybe he wasn't a bad guy. Maybe . . . maybe he was like her at some point. Caught in the wrong crowd. It could happen to anyone. And if he had been in her position, she could just as easily end up in his one day.

She shuddered at that thought.

"I can't count how many people I've killed," James said after gulping his drink.

"Killed?"

He nodded, once. "I'm the best there is, dear."

Tiffany reached for the syringe.

He leaned over the minibar. His hairy knuckles hung loosely. "I think it's because I'm so damn calm. I can see what has to be done, and I do it. There's no . . ." he blinked. "There's no time or place to think about it. You do it and you move on. Like any other job, dammit." His fingers curled into a fist. He gazed at the door. "It's all a funny trick, when you get down to it, murder is."

Best not to ask him to elaborate. Not that she'd want to hear the details. She had to wonder, though: what led a human being to kill? What had led James to his first kill?

The clock read 10:47.

Already? She had a little more than an hour to act if she wanted to live.

James, still standing at the minibar, lowered his forehead to his forearms. She cradled the syringe between her fingers.

One possible plan: sneak behind him, only close enough to inject his neck. She was barefoot and the carpeting was thick, so no sound. But how would he react? That was the big question. She looked around for a blunt object—a weapon, something to defend herself with if she couldn't evade him long enough for the propofol to kick in. There was a letter opener on a table adjacent to the door, but he might notice her walking to it. Her high heels were near the bed. There was a lamp on the bedside table, too.

James's shoulders convulsed like he was laughing. Silently laughing.

No, not laughing.

Sobbing.

The clock read 10:53. Tiffany closed her eyes. She put the syringe back, then lay her head on the pillow and curled into fetal position.

* * *

The old man wept like an old woman. Tiffany held her knees to her chest, hugging her shins as tight as she could. _Come on,_ she thought. _Walk over there. One quick prick with the needle. Kick him in the balls and run out the door._ She chewed her lip and listened to his sobs. She opened her eyes. 11:13. The syringe was beneath her head, yet the pillow separating her from it may as well have been a concrete wall.

James was the key, she had to remember. The obstacle. She needed a plan.

Her heart sunk at the first idea to come, which was the original idea anyway.

"Fuck me," she said, turning to him.

He was still sobbing with his head buried in his arms.

"James."

He rubbed his sleeve over his face and looked up from the minibar.

She opened her robe. "Fuck me."

His eyes explored her—her shoulders, her chest, her stomach, all the places she'd shaved earlier that night. He limped to the bed, and when he plopped down a whiff of alcohol pervaded her nose.

He took off his coat. He undid his shirt buttons. She held her breath as his fingers explored her shoulders, as the robe fell off of them, as one hand fell in place behind her head and the other slid down her body, and as his lips lowered to hers.

She'd never been kissed, either.

She shut her eyes and puckered her lips, waiting for wetness to meet them.

"If I had a gun at the moment," James said, removing his hands from her, "I'd put myself out of my misery."

She opened her eyes and caught her breath. ". . . What?"

"It's why I don't carry these days. I'm too much of a coward to go through with it and not carrying gives me an excuse to live another day." He chuckled as he sat up. "To think, dear. I'm the cold hard killer and I can't do it to myself."

"James—"

"Marry me."

Tiffany covered herself.

"I want children. I want a wife. Can't I have that much before I die?" He paused. "Though maybe I don't deserve that much. I've snuffed enough lives to deserve nothing more than to—"

Tiffany grabbed his face and put her lips to his. Then reason returned and she pulled away.

"You're just a little girl," he said, grinning. "What do you know?"

"I know enough."

He shrugged.

"I know you're a good man who's down on his luck, who got the shit end of the stick. And he wants to make up for the wrong he's done in this world."

"Everything I've done in my life was for the good of this world, you damn whore. Everything. Every man I killed. They were bad men. Understand?"

Tiffany nodded.

"Good girl." James rose and started for the window. He opened it, allowing in a cool night breeze. The clock read 11:26.

 _I'm sorry, James,_ she thought, reaching for the syringe. She slipped it into her robe's pocket, then got up and walked towards James, whose back was to her as he watched the city below. Her thoughts flowed lucidly:

 _I'm sorry for your life. I'm sorry you lost your wife. I'm sorry you had to kill people_ — _bad men. I'm sorry you're so miserable and alone, James. I'm sorry I have to help another man kill you, but the fact of the matter is I want to live. I need to go on. You had your chance, James, and now it's my turn to live. I'm sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, but I'm glad I got to meet you. Or, rather, I'm glad I got to be the last person you'll ever meet or know. I'm glad I got to be part of your miserable life in some tiny way. I'm glad you get to die painlessly, like a sick dog being put down. I'm glad you're giving me my life, old man. Consider this a good deed. You're going out on a good deed._

She inched closer and closer. The wind blew past James, causing her robe to flow open. She reached into the pockets, both to hold it shut and to feel the syringe.

Behind him, now, she positioned the syringe between her index and ring fingers so that her thumb rested on the plunger. He stood crooked in front of the window like a dilapidated mannequin.

She lifted her free hand to the nape of his neck. He didn't react. Her heart beat fast. She caressed the skin, felt the warmth. He moaned. She held her breath. Slyly, discreetly, she took out the syringe. It trembled in her hand.

She aimed its tip to his neck.

"Do it, dear."

Tiffany froze.

"Please, girl."

"I can't." Her fingers became light, weak, as if she'd just had four cups of coffee on an empty stomach. The syringe fell to the floor.

James picked it up. He held it to the moonlight. "Propofol?"

". . . Yeah."

He nodded.

Tiffany's mouth grew dry. "H—How did you know?"

"I saw the fellow in the lobby downstairs."

 _James knew the whole time._

He placed the syringe in her hand. Her fingers wrapped around it. He grabbed her other hand, then walked her to the bed.

* * *

Theophilus Smith reclined in a hotel lobby chair. He wore his favorite sapphire blazer—the one with three gold buttons on each cuff, his favorite starched slacks, his favorite black loafers, and his favorite Glock 19 pistol nestled against his ribs. He'd polished his loafers and the buttons on his cuffs—not only because he was a proper gentleman, but because tonight was the night he was going to kill the Legend himself. This was Theo's moment, his chance to show he was willing to cross hell itself for Boss, that no danger, no fear, was beyond loyalty. Boss had said something about a woman being up there with him who also needed to be taken care of. Theo stared indifferently at an elderly couple walking past. They nodded to him. He nodded back. Behind them was the elevator they'd stepped off of a moment earlier.

A clock on the wall read 12:00.

Boss had told him the woman might appear in the lobby at or before midnight. If she did, it meant James Bond was unconscious in the apartment, which meant he would have time to follow her and put to use one of the two bullets he'd loaded in the Glock 19—only two, because Theo was a master gunman and not even a man like Bond could escape one of his expertly-placed shots. He smirked at not being able to recall ever having missed a target, or needing more than one bullet to do a job. A man like him would ascend quickly in this business. He smirked again, pondering the many paths destiny offered to a wonder like him, paths which would undoubtedly require difficult moral decisions that he, above most others, was prepared to make.

It was almost 12:01 and no sign of the woman.

Adrenaline tickled Theo's insides. If she was still up there, it meant Bond was still conscious. He'd heard stories of how Bond could cajole a woman into talking. A little flash of his charm and she would have confessed everything.

12:01.

No woman in the lobby.

Theo had been compromised. Bond was waiting for him.

He wiped sweat from his forehead. Boss would be pissed if he ran. Boss would never trust him again—certainly not with a high-profile job like this. Theo would be back on the streets, back to doing grunt work for morons who thought they were the cheese because they smoked Montecristos and drove second-hand Buicks.

Theo stood. He walked to the elevator. He pressed the button and got in, mindful to keep the collar of his blazer covering most of his face for the security camera's sake.

The door shut. He hovered his finger over the appropriate button, then pressed it, _because_ he was Theophilus Smith, because the name of _Theophilus Smith_ was one the world would soon come to know and fear. Theo was going places. Big Time. Not even Bond himself could stand in the way.

The elevator vibrated for a moment. The door dinged open.

Theo stepped into the middle of a quiet, bright hallway. Nobody around. Room 1516 was at the far end of the hall. He started for it, pulling out the Glock 19 and a noise suppressor as he went. The suppressor was attached by the time he reached the door. He rummaged through his pocket for the room key Boss had given him, sure to stand out of view of the peephole. He rested the key halfway in the keyhole.

There was still time. So what if he was a grunt again? Was being a grunt so bad? Better a grunt than a dead man.

 _No._ He'd done his time, paid his dues. This was his time to shine. Of course there was risk to this line of work. Of course. How could he hope to make it to the top if he was a coward? Bravery was the overcoming of fear, not the absence of it. Boss was brave. Bond was brave.

Theo pushed the key in all the way and undid the lock.

Theophilus Smith was brave—the bravest, scariest man the world would ever know.

He squeezed the Glock 19's handle and turned the doorknob. He pushed on the door. It wouldn't budge. He pushed some more, putting his shoulder into it. He took a step back. Finding his balance, he lifted his foot and kicked.

The door bounced open with a crash. A small table lay sideways before the door; it must have been placed there to keep it shut. A window was wide open. The curtains danced in the night air, and a man lay lifeless on a bed beneath the moonlight. Where was the woman?

Theo studied the room. Pistol clutched in both hands, he advanced toward the bed.

It was Bond. James Bond. James Bond, unconscious and with an empty syringe nearby.

The future looked cheery.

For Theophilus Smith, that is.

Theo rested the Glock 19 on the gray hair caressing James Bond's temple and pulled the trigger. Twice.

* * *

Thunder rumbled high over the city, lightning flashed, and Tiffany stood in an alley, alone, closing her robe against the wind. It had started to drizzle. She stared at a little tear in the robe's hem. It must've gotten snagged on the fire escape when she fled. She craned her neck back. Way, way up high, the window from seemed to hang high over the entire city. A tiny figure in blue appeared behind the curtains, briefly, illuminated in the moonlight. The curtains fluttered, and he was gone.

James was right. The assassin would have killed her no matter what. Both she and James were marked for death—him for who he was, her for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But.

But in a few years, or in a few decades, perhaps, someone might plan to kill her. Only it won't be because she's an innocent bystander. It'll be because of who she was. Who she _might_ become.

From that dark, damp alley at the bottom of nowhere, buildings obscured most of the sky. She shivered, hugging the robe around herself.

James had given her: life, and a choice. Clarity, too.

The man in blue emerged on the sidewalk in front of the lobby doors. He smoked a cigarette, then walked to a car parked at the end of the street. The engine revved and off he went, out of her life forever.

Tiffany stepped out of the shadows and out of the alley.

She stood at two paths, and James had shown her what lay down one of them. He hadn't been able to tell her what lay down the other, though. She wondered about that other path, the path she'd come from.

"You don't live twice," she said to the memory of James, to the dead body up there in the hotel room. "So you have to get it right the first time."

She walked. Her bare feet smacked the rain-soaked concrete. People stared. She arrived at a bus stop, where an elderly couple waited, sharing an umbrella. The woman looked at Tiffany, then nudged the man in the arm. The man and woman exchanged looks, a silent language that must've taken years to perfect.

"Miss," the man said. The woman smiled. "Do you know where you're going?"

"I think so."

"Do you need help?"

Tiffany gave one last look at the hotel. "I would appreciate that."

* * *

END


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